


Beauty and The Beast

by KitanaRiddle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Disney, Jim makes a perfect villain, John as Belle, M/M, Minor Violence, Modern Day, Sherlock as The Beast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitanaRiddle/pseuds/KitanaRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Once upon a time in a flat on Baker Street, a young consulting detective lived in 221B.  Although he was handsome and brilliant, the consultant was spoiled, selfish and unkind. But then one winter’s night a woman he had solved a case for offered him a single rose as a thank-you for his help, as well as extended an invitation for dinner. Repulsed by her sentiment, the detective sneered at the gift and turned the woman away. But she warned him not to be deceived by his belief that companionship was a weakness, for love and friends are what kept people safe. However, when he dismissed her again the woman revealed herself to not only be a dominatrix, but also an enchantress. The man tried to disprove her powers but it was too late for she had seen that his desire to be brilliant caused him to deny the unexplained ways of magic and love. As punishment she transformed him into a hideous beast and placed a powerful spell on the flat and all who were in there. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty and The Beast

**Author's Note:**

> **UNBETAED**
> 
>  
> 
> I have little sisters who make me watch Disney movies (But I secretly enjoy it).

Once upon a time in a flat on Baker Street, a young consulting detective lived in 221B.  Although he was handsome and brilliant, the consultant was spoiled, selfish and unkind. But then one winter’s night a woman he had solved a case for offered him a single rose as a thank-you for his help, as well as extended an invitation for dinner. Repulsed by her sentiment, the detective sneered at the gift and turned the woman away. But she warned him not to be deceived by his belief that companionship was a weakness, for love and friends are what kept people safe. However, when he dismissed her again the woman revealed herself to not only be a dominatrix, but also an enchantress. The man tried to disprove her powers, but it was too late for she had seen that his desire to be brilliant caused him to deny the unexplained ways of magic and love. As punishment she transformed him into a hideous beast and placed a powerful spell on the flat and all who were in there. 

At first the man was not bothered by the curse until he saw the way people refused to acknowledge him and even recoiled when he approached.  His high cheekbones had been covered in dark scales and his already hollow cheeks sunk even deeper into his face.  His eyes, that saw everything, retained their light grey colour but the sclera turned a deep red that frightened even Sherlock when he caught sight of them in the mirror. The bow of his upper lip was undistinguishable as his nose grew into a long beak over his mouth and his nails turned into sharp talons. His work as a consultant became impossible as he was unable to speak with anyone.  Repulsed by this new information, the man locked himself away in the flat, only using his cell phone and computer as means to interact with the outside world.

In his isolation, the only companions he had were the people who had been at the flat that dreaded night; purely there by chance. His landlady had thrown an early Christmas party to try and force the man to socialize more. Mrs. Hudson, his land lady, transformed into a pot and the sweet pathology lab assistant from the morgue, Molly, became a matching tea cup. The Detective Inspector who worked with the consultant, Greg Lestrade, transformed into a tall, silver candle stick and the newly transformed beast’s older brother, Mycroft, became a clock.

The rose the enchantress had offered him was truly an enchanted one, which would bloom until his 35th year. If he could learn to love another, and earn their love in return, by the time the last petal fell then the spell would be broken; if not, he would be doomed to be a beast for all time. As the years past he fell into despair and lost all hope, for who could ever learn to love a man who not only looked repugnant but also lacked social skills.  

As those years passed the consulting detective, Sherlock, learnt to conceal his monstrous looks by wearing a long coat with the hood drawn over his face.  The Detective Inspector who had replaced Greg Lestrade was DI Dimmock and he only allowed Sherlock to consult on the rarest of cases. All the officers at the Yard were suspicious at Lestrade’s sudden disappearance and Sherlock’s new appearance, but time seemed to erase their memories of how truly gruesome the man looked under his cowl. None commented on the candlestick that the consultant carried to the crime scenes and seemed to whisper at when the case was particularly interesting. Instead they ignored him and called on him less and less frequently.

It was three days before the beast’s 35th birthday when Harriett Watson broke into his flat in a drunken stupor.

* * *

**A Few Weeks Prior**

John Watson was making his way to the small apartment he shared with his sister when a short, dark haired man fell into step with him.

“Good morning Dr. Watson,” the man purred.

“It’s the afternoon Mr. Moriarty,” John sighed, not looking to his new companion, “Stalking is illegal.”

With a pout Jim Moriarty grabbed onto John’s left shoulder and dug his fingers into the scared flesh he knew lay under the jumper, “Oh dear, I could say I hate to do things considered illegal… buuuuut then I’d be lying.”

The former army doctor grinded his teeth together but refused to express pain under the strong grip, “I told you no.”

Sebastian Moran stepped into pace with the pair moments later and kicked at John’s cane, trying to throw the man off balance, as the trio made their way down the street, “You don’t need that _Captain Watson._ ”

“Sebastian!” Jim whined, “Johnny Boy still won’t accept my offer. What ever shall we do with him?”

“You know it’d be a lot easier for all of us if you’d just marry him.”

Finally John stopped in front of the entrance to his apartment and gave his escorts the fiercest look he could muster, “Nope. I’m not gay and there is no reason I would ever marry this criminal.”

Flashing a feral smile Jim caught John’s chin in his hand and forced the man to look at him, “But Johnny, you’re such a brilliant conductor of thoughts. My plans come so much easier when you’re around. The best way to ensure you’re mine is to put ring on it… I thought you’d like that more than a collar!”

Shaking the Irish man off of him, John stalked into the building and slammed the door shut when he made it into his and Harry’s apartment.  His anger at the two men he left on the sidewalk transferred onto his sister when he saw the empty wine bottles on the counter. Harry was leaning out the small kitchen window and sucking on a cigarette with her purple stained lips.

“Baby brother!” She slurred, “Was that your psychiatrist you came home with? What a looker, if I was into that kinda thing.”

“He’s not a _real_ psychiatrist Harriet. He’s a bloody criminal that was pretending to be one,” John emphasized each word by slamming the wine bottles into the recycle bin, “I thought you were done with all this drinking.”

“You only call me Harriet when you’re mad at me.”

“Of course I’m mad at you! You were three weeks sober and you’ve thrown it aw-” John stopped when he glanced at his sister and saw her slumped against the wall, fast asleep with the still burning cigarette dangling from her fingers. After grabbing the cigarette before it fell to the ground, John took a deep drag and gave it a dirty look before extinguishing it and carrying his sister to bed.  

He made himself a cup of tea and settled into the ragged couch and reflected on the mess his life had become. The tea cup shook as he tried to lift it to his mouth and he ended up switching it to his right hand in order to stop spilling. Somehow he’d managed to survive a war only to be assigned to a psychiatrist that ended up being more dangerous than any battle he’d seen.  Musing about the first meeting he had with Jim Moriarty, the man had taken one look at John before suddenly sharing his plans about bombs, elections and murderers, John felt his left hand steady. A part of him, the soldier, wanted the danger that Mr. Moriarty offered; however, the rational part of him, the doctor, knew he’d never be able to harm people the way that his pseudo-psychiatrist had described. By the time he was finished worrying about Harriet and Moriarty his tea was only half drunken and cold.

* * *

**The night of Harriet’s Break-In**

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson scolded when she saw the newest bullet holes in the wall, “Just because I’m not in human form doesn’t mean I’m not still your landlady!”

The man in question was lying half in his arm chair, a skull perched on his lap and a gun in his hand.  Mycroft was sitting, more so resting as a clock cannot sit, in front of a laptop and answered dryly, “He is aware that I can only do work with voice recognition and he does enjoy to make that as difficult as possible.”

“How hard it must be to run the country without opposable thumbs,” Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and felt the hands of his clock face spin in frustration. Instead of raising to the bait of yet another fight, he turned back to screen and muttered into the speaker. Lestrade and Molly had escaped to the lower flat hours earlier when Sherlock had first withdrawn his weapon and Mycroft wished his work station was there as well so he could avoid his brother. As he attempted to continue working and ignore the moping man on the chair, he heard a large crash.

“Hello… annnybody here?” a woman’s voice called from the back door.

Sherlock spun his head at the noise and pulled on his cloak before sweeping down the stairs.  He was greeted by the view of a drunken woman stepping over the glass of the window she’d broken to get access to the house.  As he hid on the last few steps of the dark staircase, he heard her mumble to herself, “Course nobodies here, it’s bloody creepy.”

He felt his brother bounce past him, his jumps quiet enough that the intoxicated woman could not hear, and watched at the clock slapped its _hand_ over Lestrade’s mouth before the candlestick could make his presence known. Lestrade had left what was formerly Mrs. Hudson’s flat to see the commotion and luckily Mycroft knew Greg well enough to predict the candlestick would try and converse with the intruder.

“I can’t go back to my apartment ‘cause John would kill me so I’m gunna kip here,” she slurred as she pulled on the locked door of 221C.

Greg pulled his mouth free and hissed, “Come on Mycroft, have a heart. Besides she’s a woman! She could be the one to break the curse!”

With a scoff Mycroft recaptured Greg’s mouth and answered, “Even if she wasn’t an alcoholic, a woman is not where Sherlock is inclined.”

Not knowing that Sherlock was lurking on the steps, Greg lit himself up and bounded towards Harriet, “But of course mademoiselle, you can stay the night!”

Harry bent down to pick up Greg while muttering she must be drunker than she thought at the same moment Mrs. Hudson landed on Sherlock’s cloak as she made her way down the stairs. At the same moment the man had stepped forward to shoo the unwanted guest away. The fabric slid from his shoulders and the new height of Lestrade’s flames made the beast’s face clearly visible. Lestrade fell to the floor with a loud thud as Harry dropped him and proceeded to purge out the contents of her stomach.

“Oh god,” she moaned when she was finished, “I’m hallucinating monsters now. All I wanted was a place to stay.”

Rage bubbled inside Sherlock and he seized the woman by her arms and unlocked the door to 221C, “Oh I’ll give you a place to stay.”

He shoved her in the doorway and locked the door once more before snarling and smashing every mirror in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. When he was finished Molly leapt over to him, careful not to spill the hot tea Mrs. Hudson had just poured into her, and let the beast pick her up in his talon hands and sip at her until he felt exhaustion overcome him and he made his way upstairs to his bed.

* * *

“Johnny!”

Looking up from his computer, John witnessed Jim saunter into his bedroom as if it were his own, “Mr. Moriarty, what a pleasant surprise.”

“Isn’t it though? You know _Doctor_ I’m just full of surprises. There’s not a person in the world who wouldn’t love to be in your shoes. This is the day all your dreams come true.”

“My only dream is to find Harry and get away from you,” John grumbled.

Jim grabbed the computer off the man’s lap and flung it violently to the floor before pushing John onto the bed. He started mouthing his way down the former soldier’s neck while he spoke, “Picture this: a penthouse condo, my latest kill headlining the front pages, and my darling husband illuminating all my plans with his strange talent as a conductor of ideas.”

Using his training, John flipped the Irish man off of him before bolting out into the common area.  Jim followed promptly and began to stalk after him while calling, “I’ve got the papers drawn up; you don’t even have to indulge me with a wedding. Sign your name, crawl into bed with me and everything else following will be easy.”

By this point Jim had both his hands braced on the door that was trapping John from behind. His pupils blew large with lust and as he captured John’s lips in a bruising kiss, he failed to notice the man grab for the door handle.

Breaking the kiss John gasped, “I’m not gay. And you can’t break into people’s homes!”

John twisted him wrist and opened the door, tipping them both off balance. Rolling with the movement of the door, John was able to remain standing while Jim fell into the hallway.  As he locked the door behind him, John heard Moriarty yell, “Actually, my dear, I bought this entire building so I can go anywhere I’d like! This isn’t over; I’ll find you regardless of where you try and hide.”

It was then that John remembered the app on Harriet’s phone. He logged into her online phone account and prayed that his sister still had some battery left in order to track it.

* * *

Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper were trying their best to clean up the mess in Mrs. Hudson’s flat when they heard a quiet knock on the back door followed by a whisper, “Harry?”

Sherlock had stormed upstairs with Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson in tow a few hours prior and Lestrade wagered the man was still fast asleep after refusing to sleep for the previous days leading up to his birthday.

“Greg! It’s a man!” Molly giggled before she quietly sprung up the stairs to 221B.

While she made her way to alert Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson of the new guest, Lestrade watched as John stared at the door to 221C and ran his fingers over the scuff marks that Sherlock’s claws created when he flung it open last night.  To the candlestick’s astonishment the intruder pulled out a small metal wire and began to pick up the lock. Within a few moments the door sprung open and Harriet Watson was found fast asleep curled in the doorway. He gathered his sister into her arms and shook his head in frustration; how was he going to carry her home and manage his cane? But more importantly, who had locked her in that room in the first place. With a frustrated grunt, John attempted to lift up his sister and ignore his limp.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Molly exclaimed once she entered the upstairs flat, “There’s a man downstairs and he’s handsome too!”

Mycroft’s hands on his face clock began to twirl as he turned away from his computer and faced the small tea cup that had just joined them, “A man? Is it the drunkard’s husband?”

Sheepishly Molly answered, “I don’t know…”

“Well was he wearing a ring? The woman was,” Mycroft coaxed.

“I didn’t look!”

Before their conversation could continue, a third voice cut in, “Common people often see but do not observe. Now what is it that you missed today?”

Mycroft and Molly exchanged terrified looks, “Nothing… it was … just nothing Sherlock.”

The beast narrowed his eyes before throwing his hands in the air, “It was simpler to deduce you when you were actually a human, not a bloody tea cup!”

He prowled down the stairs, suddenly remembering his _guest_ and the clock and tea cup followed with a solemn manner.  When he reached the bottom he watched a soldier, with a psychosomatic limp, trying to lift the passed out woman onto his shoulders.

“Another one?” he snarled from the darkness.

John steeled himself, his left hand losing its tremor, as he turned to where the voice had come from, “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are but you can’t lock my sister in your house.”

It was then that Harry began to come out of her black out, “John you came for me but there’s a monster!”

“A monster? Did you do drugs last night too?!”

Sherlock had heard enough of their bickering and he grabbed at the pair.  Harry lunged for the back door while moaning, “Don’t let it hurt me John!”

Bracing himself against the wall, John used it to launch himself forward and tackle the strange man to the floor, “Run Harry! But don’t go back to the apartment. It’s not safe there!”

Harry never heard anything past his yell to run as she darted through the bins in the alley and emerged on the streets.  Meanwhile Sherlock and John were wrestling on the floor while Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly and Mrs. Hudson watched on in fear.

“What if he hurts Sherlock?” Molly cried.

“This isn’t helping us to win anybody’s love! Now that girl and this guy hate him. Mycroft do _something_ ,” Greg added.

Mycroft had no inclination of what to do but his younger brother gained the upper hand and shoved John into 221C and steadied himself against the door to stop the man from escaping.

“What am I to do with him?” Sherlock hissed at his brother.

Mycroft only stared back and refused to answer.

With a great sigh Sherlock yelled through the door, “I’m going to open the door, don’t react with your soldier instincts.”

The pounding on the door ceased and John called back, “How did you know I was a soldier?”

Sherlock had not had a chance to deduce anybody for a long while and before he could stop himself the words flew out of his mouth, “I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your cane suggests a limp, but you didn’t acknowledge it when we were wrestling. Like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, suntan – you’re a soldier.”

There was a long pause on the other side of the door and Sherlock was tempted to say more when he heard the faint reply, “That was amazing.”

The beast threw open the door and stared at the man, “You think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary… quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?” John asked.

Sherlock paused and tried to remember what was said to him before his monstrous appearance made them shriek and refuse to talk to him, “Piss off.”

“Well if you keep locking people in your basement it’s no surprise!” the soldier started to giggle and Sherlock joined him unexpectedly.

When he had finished laughing out all of his tension, Sherlock pulled his hood to ensure it was still secure and blocking his face before answering, “Only when they break into my flat in the middle of the night, as your sister did. Or when they tackle me to the ground, as you did.”

“Why don’t you offer him a nice cuppa,” Lestrade persuaded as he hopped up to the two men, casting light onto the hallway. Sherlock was able to see John more clearly and was intrigued by the strange man; there was something more to him that just being a soldier but he couldn’t quite place it yet.

“Is… is that candlestick talking? No, that’s impossible.”

“No, use your eyes and your mind. Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be true.”

John swallowed heavily as he saw Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft come into view before he swayed on his feet and collapsed to the ground.

* * *

“Who does he think he is?” Jim scorned from his thick, leather armchair, “Nobody says no to Moriarty. Dismissed! Rejected!”

Sebastian passed him a martini, “Come on Boss, you’ve got to pull yourself together. Doesn’t he have a sister or something?”

The criminal took a long sip from the glass before tossing it, still half full, into the fire, “He wouldn’t listen to the little alcoholic anyways.”

“But he loves her right? You always tell me sentiment is a weakness.”

As Jim’s mind started to whir with ideas his phone let out a shrill ring. He gave Sebastian a questioning glance; there were only 2 people who had access to that number, Sebastian and John. A look at the caller display revealed it was John so the criminal answered, barely containing his glee, “Yes?”

“Is this John’s psychiatrists?” It was Harriet Watson.

“I’m afraid I cannot answer that, confidentiality. Is there something you need?”

He heard Harry hesitate, “There’s a monster, a beast! He looks like part bird, part snake and part human. It’s terrifying! And it has John.”

Moriarty was already annoyed the phone call wasn’t from John and he hissed out, “Are you drunk woman? This is entirely unprofessional.”

“No! Please you have to beli-” Jim slammed his phone closed, cutting Harry off midsentence, and rubbed at his temples.

“Run surveillance on Harriet Watson and when the timing is right, bring her to me. We’ll promise her as a present to Johnny Boy when he decides to finally wed me. And check in on Irene’s little monster while you’re at it.”

* * *

John felt himself slowly waking up. His muscles ached and the painful cramps in his stomach reminded him how he’d forgotten to eat the day Harry went missing. As he found himself able to open his eyes, he saw a tall man covered in a cloak, staring at him from beneath his cowl. It was then he remembered finding his sisters, wrestling with the man and then relaxing before a talking candlestick intervened.

“You’re awake,” the voice coming from the shadows of the hood was deep and smooth.

The soldier pushed himself up slowly, realizing he was lying in a bed, “Yes. I forgot to eat in the panic to find my sister. My glucose levels were so low I started hallucinating I believe.”

“A doctor... no an army doctor. Brilliant!”

“Sorry?”

Sherlock looked to his guest, “I couldn’t figure out what was different about your military status but it’s because you’re a doctor and a soldier. An interesting combination.”

It was then that Mrs. Hudson pushed open the door with her spout and Lestrade followed behind her, balancing a tray on one of his candle arms, “Some biscuits and tea for the man before dinner.”

John was able to use the loo and then carry his tea tray out into the living area. He glanced around the flat. There was a clock sitting in front of the computer, talking to it, stacks of books and papers littering every available surface and the kitchen looked like a laboratory more than a food preparation area, “So you live here with your magical talking friends?”

“Colleagues.”

“Sorry, what?” John felt his body return to homeostasis as he licked jam off the last biscuit and downed the rest of his tea.

“I don’t have friends.”

“So how did you end up with a bunch of talking objects?”

Sherlock had been plucking lightly at his violin while exchanging dirty looks with the clock, “A curse.”

“Right. A curse.”

Before John could ask more questions there was a sharp knock on the main door followed by the noise of heavy feet making their way to 221B.  Sherlock opened the door to let DI Dimmock into the flat. John watched in awe as Mrs. Hudson and Molly went immobile on the tea tray while their faces disappeared off their surface. The clock, Mycroft, lost his eyes and mouth as well and Lestrade extinguished his own flames and joined them in stillness.

“Detective Inspector Dimmock it has been a few years since I’ve seen you here,” Sherlock skipped the greetings, “What do you need.”

“Have you been reading the papers? We’ve got serial suicides and there’s been a fourth, this one with a note.”

“Who’s on forensics?”

The DI rolled his eyes and huffed, “Anderson. And I don’t want the two of you going at each other. That’s not why you’re being asked to come.”

“Anderson won’t work with me.”

“I’ve told him to behave as I’m telling you. Will you come?”

Sherlock gave a quick wave, “Yes fine. Text me the address and I’ll follow behind you.”

“Maybe don’t bring that candlestick, it puts people on edge,” the DI gestured to Lestrade before seeing himself down the stairs.

Once they heard the door close behind him, Lestrade came back to life, “you better bring me Sherlock. It’s your fault I’m not the DI coming to your door.”

John looked up at that, “You’re a DI?”

With no lack of malice Greg replied, “Was.”

“Come now Gregory, once this curse is broken I’ll ensure you have your job back,” Mycroft spoke, “Also, take Dr. Watson with you Sherlock, he could be of help.”  
  
“You told him I’m a doctor?”

“Of course not. Mycroft’s always been better at seeing details before I do and he enjoys rubbing my nose in it,” the consultant answered as he wrapped a scarf around his hood and picked up Lestrade, “Are you coming John?”

John stood from the chair he was lounging in and followed behind the detective. When they reached the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, John saw his cane resting where he’d dropped it earlier that morning and realized he hadn’t limped once since he awoke in Sherlock’s flat.

“So that room I was in, it’s yours?” he asked as they settled into the taxi and the consulting detective slid the window shut so the driver couldn’t hear them converse.

“No, it’s an extra bedroom.”

“Ah.”

Glancing at his companion Sherlock persuaded him, “You have more questions. Ask.”

“Where are we going?”

“Crime scene, next.”

“Why?”

Gregory answered instead, “Before this stupid curse, Sherlock used to be my consultant whenever we had cases out of our depth.”

“Which was always,” Sherlock pouted and turned his attention back to the window.

“And Molly, was she part of the police as well?”

“Molly worked at Bart’s hospital as a pathologist in the morgue and Mrs. Hudson is my landlady.”

When Sherlock went quiet and gave no explanation for Mycroft, John asked the candlestick. Greg replied, ignoring Sherlock’s growl, “Mycroft is Sherlock’s older brother.”

“And he’s always on that computer why?”

“Mycroft used to _be_ the British government, when he wasn’t being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. He claims that the country would fall to ruin if he wasn’t able to work in some capacity so we got him hooked up to the computer for Queen and Kingdom and all that,” Greg squawked as Sherlock grabbed him suddenly.

“We’re here!”

The trio exited the vehicle after John fished out the few rumpled notes he had in his pocket and paid the driver. A beautiful woman with dark skin and tight curls stood at the edge of the crime tape and sneered when she saw them approach.

“Hello, beast, candlestick and er… who’s this?”

“Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend.”

“A colleague? How do you get a colleague?” She turned to address John, “Wha- did he follow you home?”

“Would it be better if I just waited…?”

“No,” Sherlock stated as he lifted the police tape and Sergeant Donovan spoke into her radio alerting DI Dimmock that he’d arrived.  

John watched Lestrade’s flames flicker when they passed a forensics agent. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his voice was heard hissing the name _Anderson_ under his hood. When they entered the building Sherlock passed John a blue suit, “You’ll need to wear one of these.”

“Who’s this?” Dimmock asked.

“He’s with me.”

“Yeah, but who is he?”

“I said he’s with me.”

Sherlock was about to charge up the stairs when the DI grabbed his arm, “Listen, Lestrade may have let you get away with things but look where that got him, either got murdered himself or fled the country to get away from you. Now tell me, who is he?”

With a dramatic arm wave Sherlock introduced John before rushing up the stairs. When they reached the upper bedroom Dimmock promised the consultant two minutes and informed them that the dead body was Jennifer Wilson.  Sherlock started to examine the body, first looking at what the victim scratched a word into the wood floor. The scratches were made by the nails of her left hand and the message read **R-A-C-H-E**. The beast knelt down for a closer look, lifting up her collar to see the inside as wet as the outside but the umbrella in her pocket came up dry as he ran his hand across it. He was following every movement of his right hand with his left which was holding the candlestick. When he pulled out his pocket sized magnifying lens, Sherlock began to whisper about the victim’s jewelry; how it’s clean, except for her wedding ring which was clean on the outside but dirty on the inside.

“Got anything?” Dimmock asked after Sherlock stood once more.

“She’s from out of town, intending to stay in London for one night, before returning home to Cardiff, so far, so obvious.”

John took Lestrade from Sherlock’s extended hand while he asked, “Sorry, obvious?”

“Victim is in her late 30s. Professional person going by her clothes. I’m guessing the media going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night from the size of her suitcase-”

“-Suitcase?!”

“-Yes. She’s married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

Dimmock shot Sherlock a frustrated look, “Oh, for gods, sake, if you’re just making this up…”

“Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry’s been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring; state of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, so it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work, look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands. So, what, or rather, who does she remove her rings for? Not one lover, she’d never sustain the fiction of being single for that amount of time, so more likely a string of lovers. Simple.”

“That’s brilliant!” John announced as Sherlock gives him a look, “Sorry.”

Dimmock seemed less impressed as he asked, “Cardiff…?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

John looked over to the hooded man and murmured, “It’s not obvious to me.”

“Dear god. What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring…Her coat- it’s slightly damp, she’s been in heavy rain for the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She’s turned it up against the wind. She’s got an umbrella in her left hand pocket, but it’s dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can’t have traveled for more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff,” Sherlock saw the displeased look Dimmock gave him and pulled his scarf tighter around his hood to ensure it wouldn’t slip down at any point.

“That’s fantastic!”

Lestrade whispered to John, “Do you know you do that out loud?”

“Sorry, I’ll shut up.”

Sherlock, who was looking at Jennifer Wilsons legs lifted his head, “No, its… fine.”

“Why do you keep saying suitcase?” Dimmock’s face was turning red with anger.

“Back of the right leg. Tiny splash marks on her right heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes- conscious- could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was only staying one night. Now where is it? What have you done with it?”

“There wasn’t a case!” the DI yelled, his entire face flushed by this point.

“There was no case… then it’s murder. All of them. I don’t know how. But they’re not suicides, they’re serial killings. We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. Love those. There’s always something to look forward to!”

“God you really are a beast. Why are you saying that?” Dimmock called as he and John, who was still holding Lestrade, watched Sherlock fly down the stairs.

Ignoring the DI’s insult, Sherlock yelled back, “Her case! Come on, where is her case, did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case. So the killer must have driven her here. Forgot the case was in the car.”

“She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there,” John joined the conversation and received an appreciative look from Dimmock.

“No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes! She’d never leave any hotel with her hair still looking… Oh… Oh! Serial killers, always hard. Have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

“We can’t just wait! Why Lestrade ever let you on these is beyond me.”

John watched Greg’s flames flicker once more as Sherlock called back, “Oh, we’re done waiting. Look at her, really look! Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends were. Find Rachel! The mistake is going to be PINK!”

Before either man at the top of the stairs could ask what he was talking about, Sherlock had vanished from sight. John gave Dimmock a quick nod and started to make his way out of the building as Greg muttered in his ear. When they made it out they realized Sherlock had truly left, not even bothering to inform them of where he was going.

“He’s gone,” Sergeant Donavon told John as he reached the edge of the crime tape once more.

“Who, Sherlock?”

“Yeah, he just took off. He does that.”

John glanced around and tightened his grip on Greg, “Is he coming back?”

“Didn’t look like it. You’re not his friend. He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?” she lifted the tape as she spoke.

“I’m… I’m… nobody. I just met him.”

“Okay, a bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy.”

“Why?” John felt angry despite barely knowing the strange man.

“You know why he first came to crime scenes? He wasn’t paid or anything. He liked it. He got off on it! The weirder the crime, the more he got off- and Lestrade used to indulge him. Then one day Lestrade goes missing and this creature turns up, talking and acting like Sherlock Holmes but with the face of a bloody monster. Has he let you see under his hood? A right nightmare it is. He’s a psychopath and lord knows what awful experiment of his went wrong that turned him into that _thing._ Now he comes to crime scenes because we’re the only ones desperate enough to even talk to the beast.”

Before John could act on the rage bubbling inside of him, Donovan was called away. He went to the main road, under the guidance of Lestrade and made his way back to Baker Street.

* * *

John was fast asleep on the couch when Sherlock returned lugging a large pink case behind him.  Molly and Lestrade stood around it while the beast dug through it.

“What are we looking to find?” Molly sounded as confused as Greg felt.

Mycroft piped up from the book he was hunched over, “It’s what you’re not going to find that’s important, Ms. Hooper.”

“What?”

Sherlock had zipped up the case and pulled out the contact information card that was inside the plastic seal of the bag, “Her phone. It wasn’t at the crime scene and it isn’t in this bag. That means the killer still has it. But did she plant it on him or simply forget it…?”

The consulting detective loomed over John’s sleeping form and shook the man awake, “John I need to borrow your phone.”

With sluggish movements, John took his phone from his pocket and passed it to Sherlock. It was when John spoke that Sherlock realized he’d taken off his cloak, which smelt from when he dove through garbage bins looking for the case.

“You don’t look like I expected, but you’re not as bad as they all made it sound,” the doctor mumbled before curling into a ball and falling asleep once more.

It took Sherlock a full twenty seconds to stop staring at John and send a text to Jennifer Wilson’s number.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, “Put the poor man in bed before you rush off to catch your killer.”

Sherlock grabbed John and decided to put him in his own bedroom rather than waste time hauling the man upstairs to the spare one. He grabbed a fresh cloak and rushed out the stairs, carrying Lestrade in his hands.

* * *

When John Watson started to stir he realized he was waking up in a strange place for the second time in a row. However this room smelt faintly sweet with an underlying scent of chemicals. The bed was plush and he felt more unperturbed than he could ever remember before.  When he opened his eyes he saw the stain glass door that had been in the loo when he used it. On the bedside table sat a glowing rose, with dead petals surrounding its bottom; there were only two petals still attached to the stem. John realized he must be in Sherlock’s bed and felt a flush of embarrassment as well as a slight flush of arousal. Ignoring the latter feeling, John made is way to the restroom before stumbling into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson and Molly were not in sight and he opened the fridge to find a foot resting in a plastic bag.

“Oh for goodness sake,” John grumbled.

He heard footsteps approaching the door and he grabbed a knife off the counter before turning towards the noise. Sherlock appeared, holding a bag of takeaway in one hand and Lestrade in the other; John felt his grip on the knife loosen.

“I brought you dinner,” Sherlock shoved the bag at him and placed Greg onto the table.

“I...that is… thank you.”

“It was no trouble. I did a stake out at Angelo’s and he gave me a free meal. I don’t eat on cases.”

John had already begun shoveling the food into his mouth, “A stakeout? For what?”

“I texted Jennifer Wilson’s phone, then received a call back almost immediately. That means the killer must have had the phone, anyone else would have ignored a text like that. The text instructed for whoever got it to meet me at an address that is clearly visible from the front window of Angelo’s.”

“Brilliant! Did you catch him?”

“No, only a tourist in the back of a cab stopped for any suspicious amount of time,” Sherlock sighed and pulled off his cloak, once more forgetting John wasn’t used to his appearance.

Before he could pull the cover back over himself John stepped forward, putting down his takeout container and pressing a warm hand on the dark scales of Sherlock’s cheek, “You’re beautiful in a macabre way.”

Sherlock let out a shaky exhale, wondering what he should do next. Mycroft came into the kitchen, shattering their moment, “Who do we trust, even if we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? How odd that a cab stopped in front of the address, isn’t it brother?”

Pacing away from the army doctor, Sherlock let out a delighted _Oh_.  

“Jennifer Wilson was clever. She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer. Rachel! Don’t you see, John? Rachel! Rachel is not a name.’

John grabbed for the remains of his takeaway as he questioned, “Then what is it?”

“John, on the luggage, there’s a label. E-mail address: [jennie.pink@mephone.org.uk](mailto:jennie.pink@mephone.org.uk). We know she didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone. So it’s a smartphone. It’s e-mail enabled. So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address, and all together now, the password is…?” Sherlock had begun typing at Mycroft’s computer ignoring the disgruntled protests of his brother.

“Rachel,” John stated through a mouthful of noodles.

“It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS. Which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her,” Sherlock’s smile was visible even under his large obscuring beak. He started to pace about the room while the computer tracked Jennifer Wilson’s phone.

John was the first to look at the screen when it beeped, “Sherlock…”

“Where is it? Quickly, where?”

“It’s here… It’s in… 221 Baker Street.”

Sherlock was confounded. He knew he hadn’t dropped the phone on the way in, and even if he had, he’d left and come back without coming across it. The killer had called him after he sent the text so unless the killer was- Sherlock stopped mid-thought as he glimpsed out the window and caught sight of a taxi idling in front of the door. He grabbed for his cloak and scarf while pulling out a pack of cigarettes from the inside of a hollowed book.

“I need a smoke to think, I’ll be back.”

When Sherlock exited the building he saw the cabbie standing holding open the cab door, “Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.”

“I didn’t order a taxi.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.”

“You’re the cabbie; the one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you. Not your passenger.”

“See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ‘ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.”

“Is this a confession?”

With a slight laugh the driver answered, “Oh, yeah. I’ll tell you what else. If you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down.”

“Why?”

“Cos you’re not gonna do that. I didn’t kill those four people, Mr. Holmes. I spoke to ‘em… and they killed themselves. If you get the coppers now, I’ll promise you one thing. I will never tell you what I said.”

Sherlock knew what he _should_ do, “No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.”

“Then you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?”

“If I wanted to understand… what would I do?”

“Let me take you for a ride.”

“So you can kill me too?”

Once more the man chuckled, “I don’t want to kill you, Mr. Holmes. I’m gonna talk to you… and you’re gonna kill yourself.”

It was when Sherlock slid into the cab and let the man drive away that John reset the tracker on the computer.

“How did you find me?” Sherlock questioned as they made their way through the city.

“Oh, I recognized you. Soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes! I was warned about you. I’ve been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it.”

“Who warned you about me?”

“Irene Adler.”

Sherlock felt his blood turn cold, _the Enchantress._

The cab came to a stop outside of Roland-Kerr Further Education College.  When the cab driver reopened Sherlock’s door, the detective asked, “And you just walk your victims in? How?”

A gun was suddenly pointed at Sherlock’s face and he rolled his eyes, “Oh dull.”

“Don’t worry… It gets better,” the man smiled.

“You can’t just make people take their own lives at gunpoint!”

“I don’t. It’s much better than that. Don’t need this with you. Cos you’ll follow me,” he put the gun back into his belt and closed the door behind the beast as he exited the vehicle.

* * *

Back at 221B, the computer gave a beep and Mycroft felt his breath leave as he saw the new location, “Doctor Watson, there is a gun in Sherlock’s beside table. If you could grab that and then take Lestrade and I to Roland-Kerr Further Education College it’d be appreciated.”

John put down Molly, who he was drinking tea from, and walked to the screen, “Why would we go there… Oh god.”

In a rush he did as Mycroft instructed.

* * *

Sherlock and the cabbie walked into a large room, the lunch room, in the college and they sat down across from each other. The detective was unsure if he truly wanted to involve himself further with Irene Adler but his craving for knowledge, and perhaps a cure to the curse, was stronger than his trepidation. He watched as the cabbie took out a bottle with a single pill inside of it.

“Oh, I like this bit. Cos you don’t get it yet, do ya? But you’re about to. I just have to do this,” the cabbie took out a second bottle which was identical to the first, “Weren’t expecting that, were ya? Oh, you’re gonna love this.”

“Okay, two bottles. Explain.”

“There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live. You take the pill from the bad bottle, you die.”

Sherlock stared at the items on the table, “Both bottles are of course, identical.”

“In every way.”

“And you know which is which, but I don’t.”

He was growing tired of the cabbie’s smile but saw it once more as the man answered, “Wouldn’t be a game if you knew, you’re the one who chooses.”

“Why should I? I’ve got nothing to go on. What’s in it for me?”

“I haven’t told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together… we take our medicine. I won’t cheat. It’s your choice. I’ll take whatever pill you don’t. Didn’t expect that, did you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock realized that was the choice that the man had given the other ‘suicide’ victims. He said as much to the man.

“And now I’m giving you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game.”

With a scoff Sherlock went to stand, “It’s not a game. It’s chance.”

“I’ve played four times, I’m alive. It’s not chance, Mr. Holmes- it’s chess. It’s a game of chess, with one move… and one survivor. And this, this… is the move,” the killer slid one of the pill bottles closer to Sherlock and left one closer to himself, “Did I just give you the good bottle, or the bad bottle? You can choose either one.”

While Sherlock and the serial killer continued to exchange words, John arrived outside the school. There were two buildings, both dark except for a few rooms, “I’ll go in the left and you two go in the right. The police are on their way so hopefully they make it in time.”

Mycroft and Lestrade made their way into the building John had said while the doctor rushed into the other.

Meanwhile Sherlock had sat back down and started to play the game, “So… you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?”

“Time to play,” the cabbie had not realized Sherlock _was._

“Oh, I am playing. This is my turn. There’s shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody’s pointed it out to you. Traces of where it’s happened before, so obviously you live on your own, there’s no one to tell you. But there’s a photograph of children. The children’s mother’s been cut out of the picture. If she died, she’d still be there. Photograph’s old, but the frame’s new. You think of your children but you don’t get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts. Ah, but there’s more. Your clothes. Recently laundered, but everything you’re wearing is at least… three years old? Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What’s that about? Ah… three years ago. Is that when they told you?”

“Told me what?” the cabbie had started shifting in his seat, his nerves apparent.

“That you’re a dead man walking.”

“So are you,” the killer pointed out.

“You don’t have long, though. Am I right?”

With a smile, not nearly as genuine as the ones earlier, the man pointed to his head, “Aneurism. Right in ‘ere. Any breath could be my last.”

“And because you’re dying, you’ve just murdered four people.”

“I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can have on an aneurism.”

Sherlock pulled down his head, hoping to frighten the man, “No… No, there’s something else. You didn’t just kill four people because you’re bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow, this is about your children.”

Without even flinching the man replied, “Oh, you are good, in’t ya? I was warned about your looks Mr. Holmes; don’t think they’ll scare me. When I die, they won’t get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.”

Frustrated Sherlock abruptly cut in, “Or serial killing.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Surprise me.”

“I have a sponsor. For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they’ll be. You see? It’s nicer than you think.”

Irene didn’t seem like the type to sponsor such acts. Despite her vengeful ways, she wasn’t a killer or she would have killed Sherlock rather than curse him, “Who’d sponsor a serial killer?”

“Not Miss Adler as you’ve probably figured out. There’s others out there, just like you, except you’re just a man. And they’re so much more than that. There’s a name that no one says. And I’m not gonna say it either. He’s been in business with Miss Adler a long time and when you’re name came up, he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to play with the beast. And now I want to so enough chatter; time to choose.”

“What if I don’t choose either? I could just walk out of here.” Sherlock challenged.

The gun was once more pointed at his beastly face, “You could take the 50:50 chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option.”

“I’ll have the gun please.”

“Are you sure? I doubt even your scales can save you from a bullet.”

“Definitely. The gun.” Sherlock didn’t so much as blink as the man pulled the trigger. A small flame appeared at the end, “I know a real gun when I see one.”

Disappointment was evident on the killer’s face, “None of the others did.”

Sherlock rose to his feet, “Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.”

“Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one’s the good bottle?”

“Course. Child’s play.”

“Well, which one then? Which one would you have picked? Just so I know whether I could have beaten you. Come on! Play the game.”

Obviously whomever was sponsoring the man knew Sherlock’s weakness was his intellectual ego. The beast reached across and grabbed the bottle closest to the cabbie.

The man’s eyes lit up, “Oh! Interesting. So what do you think? Shall we? Really… what do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?”

John had chosen the wrong building as he watched the two men opened the pill bottles and hold the contents in their hands. He started screaming Sherlock’s name, hoping the man could hear him through the glass windows separating them.

“I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you. So clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it? Still the addict. But this… this is what you’re really addicted to. You’ll do anything… anything at all… to stop being bored. You’re not bored now, are ya? Isn’t it good-” the cabbie’s words were cut short as a bullet broke through both windows and hit him in the shoulder.

Sherlock dove to the window but John had already rushed out of the room and was making his way out of the other building. With the cabbie dying beside him, Sherlock decided to leave that mystery until later. He stood over the man, “Was I right? I was, wasn’t I? Did I get it right?”

When the man refused to answer Sherlock threw the pull at him in irritation , “Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor, who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan. I want a name. You’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you. Give me… a name.”

Pressing his heel into the bullet wound, Sherlock caused enough torment that the man screamed, “MORIARTY!”

The police were soon rushing in, tossing an orange blanket around Sherlock and guiding him out of the building.  Once they reached the outside Sherlock saw John standing at the edge of the crime tape balancing Mycroft and Lestrade in each hand. It was then that he realized the bullet was from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon, that’s a crack shot. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. The shooter didn’t fire until he was in immediate danger though, so strong moral principle. **John Watson.** He flashed the man a quick smile before making his way over to DI Dimmock.

“Why do I have this blanket?” he asked as he was within earshot.

“For shock.”

With a jeer Sherlock replied, “I’m not in shock.”

“Well some of the others were hoping you’d cover your head with it,” Dimmock had no qualms about insulting the beast, “I’ve got questions for you so you’ll need to come down to the station.”

“Look, I’m in shock- I’ve got a blanket. And… I just caught you a serial killer. More or less. I’ll come in by the end of the week.”

Dimmock crossed his arms and grunted, “Fine but if you don’t I’m arresting you for contempt.”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock was already walking towards John.

“Erm… Sergeant Donovan’s… just been explaining… everything. Two pills… Dreadful business, isn’t it? Dreadful,” John’s left hand, which held Mycroft, didn’t shake at all as he spoke to the other man.

“Good shot.”

“Yes. Yes, must have been. Through that window.”

“Well, you’d know. Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course I’m all right.”

“Well, you have just killed a man,” Sherlock indicated.

John’s face scrunched as he spoke, “Yes, I… That’s true, isn’t it? But he wasn’t a very nice man. And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie.”

Sherlock started to chuckle, “That’s true, he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get there.”

Despite the fact that he had joined in with the laughter, John scolded him, “Stop it! We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it.”

They made their way from the crime scene and Sherlock had shoved the orange blanket into one of the nearby cop cars.

“You were going to take that damn pill, weren’t you?” John asked once they were far enough away that no one else could overhear.

“Course I wasn’t. Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”

“No, you didn’t. That’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?”

John grinned and Sherlock had a moment before the man answered where he thought it was the most handsome smile he’d ever seen, “Because you’re an idiot.”

Mycroft and Greg had come to life at this point and the former spoke, “It’s a good thing that Doctor Watson’s hand tremor isn’t caused because he’s haunted by the war or he’d have never made that shot.”

“What is it caused by?” John replied.

“You miss it.”

Unable to argue with that, John glanced at the beast and noticed the corners of his lips were upturned, “Not still happy about almost dying are you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what?”

Sherlock raised his hand to flag down a cab as he answered, “Moriarty.”

He did not predict John almost dropping Mycroft and Lestrade as he flinched, “You work with Moriarty?”

“What? No- the cab driver did… wait, you know who Moriarty is?”

John’s face was white and he felt a phantom pain shoot up his leg, “He was pretending to be a psychiatrist to gain access to a high profile government agent’s file. I was assigned to him and within moments he started telling me all about his criminal plans. He says I’m a… conductor of thoughts and now he stalks me, asking me to marry him. He even bought the apartment I was staying at with- Harriet! How could I have forgotten about her?!”

The army doctor put Mycroft down and grabbed his cell from his pocket. It rang once before someone picked up, “Don’t speak, Johnny Boy. I want you to pretend you’re comforting Harry about the beast and then promise you’ll come home. Do not bring that monster with you or I will kill your precious sister. Understand?”

“No, no. It’s alright Harry. There was no beast; someone must’ve laced your drinks. I’m on my way home now. It’ll be alright.”

“Gooood, good. Now when you hang up, tell the beast you’re going to take a different cab to head straight home. I’ll see you soon sexy!” Jim flirted.

John closed his eyes for a brief moment and replied, “Twenty minutes Harry and I’ll be there. Just don’t get into the liquor, alright?”

He hung up and turned to Sherlock, “I’m going to take a cab and head straight home. It’s been… amazing, truly. I hope you catch Mr. Moriarty.”

Sherlock grabbed his arm, one of his claws scraping the skin, “You’re not going to help?”

“I can’t. I’ve got to help Harry. I’m sorry Sherlock.”

A cab drove up to the curb and John slipped into it without even giving a backwards glance. His heart felt heavy and his eyes started to water but he swallowed back the painful lump forming in his throat and grated out his address to the driver. The familiar, raspy voice of Sebastian Moran replied, “I’ll get you where you need to be Captain Watson.”

* * *

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock had just arrived home and gracelessly dropped the candlestick and clock onto the floor. He started to stomp up the stairs with Lestrade nagging at his heels.

“That man killed for you Sherlock! You couldn’t love him back just so we could break this curse?” Greg was all but screaming at the man, his flames burning high and hot, “You’ve literally got a day left.”

Sherlock threw his coat onto the couch, flopped on top of it and ignored the candlestick.

“You’re a genius, aren’t you? What’s your genius plan to cure us since you’re too pigheaded and stubborn to love the bloody doctor?”

Finally the beast snarled, “I managed to avoid love and sentiment for almost 31 years and in one day John Watson changed that. I _do_ love him and the spell still isn’t broken. Surely even you can figure out what that means.”

Greg instantly felt guilty, “Sherlock… I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your sympathies Lestrade. I want to delete my memories of the last two days.”

Mycroft crawled up the couch, as best as a clock could, and made his way onto his brother’s stomach, “Sherlock the man killed for you. It wouldn’t take much to push him that extra bit into love.”

“I don’t want to push him,” the consultant mumbled into a pillow, “I want him to love me on his own.”

“You have time to make him love you properly once the spell is broken. Gregory is correct; we have to do something now.”

“He doesn’t even want to see me again! He didn’t exchange numbers or offer to come by… wait, why wouldn’t he? He _likes_ us and we cured him of his limp and hand tremor.  Surely he can help his sister and still maintain a friendship with us…” Sherlock leapt off the couch, throwing Mycroft across the room, “Moriarty.”

* * *

By the time Mycroft’s contacts were able to trace John’s location, Jim had already handcuffed the doctor to a large wooden chair at the end of a four person table. Sebastian had first served them a broth soup followed by roasted lamb, steamed beans and sweet potatoes. John had wanted to refuse the food but the large TV screen on the wall across from him played a live feed of his sister locked in a bedroom. Jim insisted on feeding John slowly while gazing at him with a love struck expression.

“How was your little _adventure_ with the beast?” he cooed.

John finished chewing the morsel in his mouth before snarling, “Don’t call him that.”

“Oh but Johnny, tonight was the first time I’d seen his bare face and he was just as horrific as Irene described. How did you stand to look at him?”

Jim was running his fingers down John’s jaw when the prisoner replied, “I don’t care how he looked. He’s brilliant, more than you’ll ever be, and he inspires loyalty in the strangest people. I’m certain his stoic exterior needs the right person to bring out the loving person inside.”

A large slap echoed through the dining room as Jim smacked the soldier across the face, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had _feelings_ for the monster. You are mine, don’t ever forget it.”

As much as John wanted to fight, he lowered his eyes instead. That seemed to please Jim and the man continued to feed him while whispering endearments into his ear.  After what seemed like hours to John, Sebastian brought out a single piece of thick, chocolate mousse.

“Hmmm,” Jim sang as he glanced at the cake, “Maybe we should take our dessert to go. What’d you think Johnny?”

“That would depend where we’re going.”

Jim gave a sharp laugh, “To the bedroom, my love.”

**“I think not.”** Coming from the kitchen, holding a gun to Sebastian’s head, was Sherlock.

John couldn’t help the rush of laughter that came from his throat. Jim stood up and pulled the doctor in front of him before hissing, “If Moran is stupid enough to get caught by the likes of you then I couldn’t care less if he died.”

Betrayal flashed across Sebastian’s face, followed by rage.  The man twisted and threw Sherlock’s grip off before grabbing a knife from his leg sheath.  He launched himself at John and tossed the former Captain to the side before he began to attack Jim.  The two men fought for control of the knife.

“You threw me aside for John and now you’re going to let the beast kill me? You’re the bloody beast!” Sebastian was practically frothing at the mouth with his fury.

However the only reply he got was Jim taking control of the knife and plunging it into his stomach. Sebastian let out an inhuman sounding howl as his former boss withdrew the knife and went to stab him again.  John’s first instinct was to rush to the men and suddenly he found himself in the middle of the fight. He pushed Jim away from Sebastian and pulled off his jumper, pressing it against the man’s bleeding wound.

Jim regained his balance and stalked towards John’s turned back, “You’ll take off your clothes for _him_ and your stupid beast? I don’t share my dear. If I can’t have you then they can’t either!”

Sherlock threw himself between the criminal and the soldier, catching the knife blade in his chest rather than John getting it in his back. Lestrade, who had been watching beside Sherlock, screamed as he watched the consulting detective fall to his knees.  As Moriarty lifted the knife to slash at the beast’s throat, the sound of a gunshot ricocheted through the room.  

Standing in the doorway, a clock balanced on her shoulder and a gun in her hand, was Harriet Watson, “I’ve just got locked in a basement by a beast, rescued by my brother, kidnapped by my brother’s psychiatrist, saved by a bloody talking clock and now I’ve killed a man. If you give me trouble about drinking when we finally get home, so help me God, I will lose it.”  

She took John’s place caring for Sebastian and allowed the army doctor to give her a quick peck on the cheek and then crawl over to Sherlock. John cradled the beast’s head, running his hot fingers along the scaled cheekbones and pointed beak.

“Think he nicked my lungs,” Sherlock gargled through the blood pooling in his mouth.

“But he didn’t get your heart,” John comforted.

“No, he didn’t get my heart,” Sherlock coughed and slowly drug a talon across John’s lower lip, “You’re safe.”

If the noise Sebastian made was inhuman, the cry that John let out could not be described as Sherlock’s hand fell and he gave his last breath.  Back at 221B Molly and Mrs. Hudson watched the last petal fall off the enchanted flower.

John was pressing his lips against Sherlock’s face when the police rushed in. His tears were leaving wet streaks along Sherlock’s skin and it took three men to pry John off of the other man’s body.

“He’s not dead. I love him. He’s not dead,” John moaned into Sally Donovan’s arms as Sherlock’s body was being lifted onto a stretcher, “I love him.”

A flash of red light blinded everyone in the room and when they could see once more, Irene Adler stood before them in her terrifying beauty. She walked over the dead creature on the stretcher before prowling up to John.

She took John’s cheeks in her hands and looked him over carefully, “Sherlock Holmes never was one to listen to instructions. I say before the last petal falls; he has someone love him right _after_ the last petal falls. He always has to do things his own way.”

Irene released John and once more stood over Sherlock’s body. With a flick of her elegant hand, the plated flesh covering Sherlock started to ooze off like giants lumps of gelatin. When his skin was once more the pale white it had been before the curse, there was a sickening _crunch_ as Sherlock’s hands, feet and beak split open. Irene wove her hand over him once more, clearing away the debris of the curse, and vanished as Sherlock struggled to sit up.

“Sherlock!” John cried as he rushed to embrace the man, “I love you, you beautiful, amazing man.”

The detective returned the crushing hug, “You are prefect, John. I return your sentiment.”

With an incredulous laugh John pulled back and shook his head at Sherlock, “You’re ridiculous.”

But that didn’t stop John from pressing their lips together. Sherlock thought he’d happily die of asphyxiation if it meant never separating from John’s mouth again. However, Sergeant Donovan distracted them with her yelp, “Lestrade?! Why did that candle stick just turn into Lestrade?”


End file.
